


the privilege of being yours

by writevale



Series: and here you are making gold out of it [8]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon Asexual Character, Established Relationship, Fingering, Fluff, Forced sharing of a fantasy with consent, Hurt/Comfort, Jon fancied Martin from day 1, Jon's obvious praise kink, Late Night Conversations, Lullabies, M/M, Martin's obvious hair kink, Oral Sex, Sharing a Bed, Trans Male Character, Various causes of sleeplessness, convince me otherwise, post 159, pre 160
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-31
Updated: 2020-03-31
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:02:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23411338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writevale/pseuds/writevale
Summary: Several nights where Martin can't sleep.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims, Past Jon/Georgie
Series: and here you are making gold out of it [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1657546
Comments: 33
Kudos: 500





	the privilege of being yours

Jon shuffles down until the bedsheets brush against his chin and adjusts his gaze so that the lamp-lit form of Martin is just visible in his peripheral vision. If what Martin says can be believed - he thinks it can - then the full force of his eyes can be felt as a roaming, burning sensation and Jon would rather watch Martin get undressed for bed without the other man feeling self-conscious about it.

He watches as Martin begins to tug his T-shirt off, revealing the soft, white curve of his middle and then shivers a little, pulling it back on in a rush as he considers the temperature of the room. Jon's lips curve into a smile that he ducks to hide beneath the sheets.

With the _clink_ of a belt buckle and a rustle of denim, Martin folds his side of the covers back and slips under them, flicking off the light in one smooth movement. Jon gives him half a second before rolling closer, eager for the radiated heat from Martin's skin. One of the numerous perks of Martin's size is just how much heat he emits on a night. Jon tries not to delineate the point, but, if forced, he would admit that the way he buries himself against Martin's chest likely counts as snuggling. In the dark, he can't quite make out Martin's face but he has become unexpectedly accustomed to the small wet sound of Martin's mouth opening into a smile. It tugs on something in his chest, a catch in his breath that opens out into a yawn.

'Night, Jon.'

'M'night.'

Martin gives him a solid thirty seconds of warm and cosy bliss before the attack. Jon is just starting to drift into that strange interlude before sleep where his thought processes start to make no sense and the day's discussions with Martin start to be replayed by the bug-eyed faces of statement givers.

'Ah!' He jumps as something icy brushes against his ankles. His eyes blink awake, and the mental image of Carlos Vittery explodes into tiny scuttling pieces. He twists in Martin's embrace and his feet brush against the freezing thing again. He recoils in shock, jerking his knees into a bent position and inadvertently kicks Martin in the crotch. 'Sorry!' It takes a second for Jon to process that the frozen solid under the bedsheets is actually Martin's feet. 'Ugh, God. Your feet are freezing!'

'Yeah, I know.' Martin's voice is one part rueful to two parts amused. Jon's rapid movement has left him with his own legs kicked back into a much colder part of the bed and he shuffles back in towards Martin tentatively.

'Ugh!' He jumps again as his bare ankles meet cold flesh.

'Warm them up for me?' Martin must be grinning for there to be that much cheek in his tone. Jon splutters in outrage as the hidden strength in Martin's arms is revealed and he holds him tight in place while trying to catch his feet between the iceblocks at the end of his ankles.

'Absolutely not! _Martin_!'

'Unbelievable.' Martin laughs lightly as he lets Jon go. 'I get cold feet from walking around on the tiles checking the locks and you won't even warm them up for me.' Jon mumbles something about his refusal to be manipulated and rolls his eyes. _Perhaps, the key to withstanding the cold is to approach it in a controlled manner_ , he hypothesises as he moves his feet closer to Martin's, barely a millimetre at a time. Eventually, he gets it so he has their feet tangled together with Martin's right foot between both of his, the left trapped between his foot and the mattress. It's awful. Truly. Jon has no clue how he's expected to sleep with the feeling that all his body heat is being leeched out of him and no clue how long it's going to take for Martin, otherwise lovely and warm, to thaw.

'Can't you put some socks on at least?' Jon pleads.

'I am wearing socks.'

Jon lets a dry, disgusted sound out from the back of his throat and nestles down into Martin's arms again. Martin presses a kiss into his hair and Jon can tell from his breathing that he's trying not to laugh. He feels entirely awake now. 

'Can't you put _more_ socks on?' He asks bitterly even though he knows that the ones Martin is wearing are his last pair. Martin sighs and pulls his feet out of the stack. The gap of skin between Jon's own socks and the hem of his pyjama bottoms is chilled where Martin had been as though his touch had left a frosty imprint.

'It's fine.'

'Sorry -'

'Honestly, it's fine. They'll warm up eventually.' Martin twists his body so that his feet are angled away from Jon and the swift forehead kiss he is given feels a little lacklustre. 'Night, Jon.'

'Night.' Jon mumbles. His insides are a mess. Tiredness, beaten down by the adrenaline spike of the unexpected chill; a gritty resolve that the way things work is him stealing Martin's heat on a night, not the other way round; guilt about his own selfishness; worry that Martin is annoyed with him. Jon mulls these feelings over slowly, weighing each one up in turn to determine its validity, turning it over and over to peer through it and try find a remedy.

It's a few minutes later when he lands on a course of action. He can tell that Martin is still awake from the depth of his breathing, the tension in the shoulder that Jon rests his head on. He hears that sound again, the spread of a smile, as he sighs and grabs Martin's ankles with his feet to hold them close. Jon tilts his head up for a rightfully earned kiss.

They both fall asleep before Martin's toes have fully warmed.

******  


The sheets rustle as Martin shifts and accidentally uncovers his feet. He recovers them with several frantic kicks and Jon sighs from his spot, safely tucked back to Martin's chest. Martin presses an apologetic kiss to the back of his head.

'Can't sleep.' He admits to the gloomy stillness of their bedroom.

'I can tell.' Jon replies dryly. He reaches behind himself to grab Martin’s arm and pull it around his chest, linking their fingers together and holding their clasped hands by his heart. Maybe that will get Martin to settle down. Instead, he gets a long sigh that tickles the back of his t-shirt.

‘Can I ask you a question?’ Jon shivers a little as a kiss is planted on the side of his neck. He can hardly say no after that.

‘Yeah.’

‘When did you first realise that you liked me?’

‘Oh. Hah. Uh.’ Jon’s face twists into a frown at the unexpected question. His stomach roils at the idea of looking back on their relationship through the lens of everything that has happened to them since they met. Martin seems to take his silence as a sign that an embarrassing or - _god forbid_ \- cute story is being withheld and does an excited wiggle behind him.

‘When?!’

‘When? Uh, well, I mean, you have always -‘ He grits his teeth, breathes into the darkness. It really shouldn’t be this hard to talk to his boyfriend about liking him. ‘When we first met, I couldn’t help but notice that you’re my type.’

‘When you-?’ Martin spits, flabbergasted. ‘You _bollocked_ me that day.’

‘Completely deservedly.’ Jon reminds him, his own cheeks heating up at the memory of a very young, very pink Martin mumbling apologies as he unleashed a thesaurus of criticisms in his direction. Martin was always cute. Jon was always an arsehole.

Martin goes quiet for a second. Then, Jon feels the curve of a smile pressed up against his back. ‘Were you just mean to me because you liked me?’

The question makes Jon’s brain stall. _Of course not,_ he wants to insist, _I have always been rational and impartial and I would never._ He angles for something a little closer to the truth instead.

‘No! I was mean to you because you were terrible at your job - no!’ He corrects himself immediately, ‘No. You did admirably well given that you had no formal training in the field. But - still. Awful. You still can’t reference properly and-'

‘I,’ Martin cuts him off, ‘Am going to take that as an apology. _Thank you._ ’ From the tone of his voice, Jon can tell he’s grinning. He smiles too, grateful for the out. ‘So, when exactly?’

‘Oh,’ He grumbles, half-wishing he’d said no to Martin’s question and insisted they go to sleep. ‘I don’t know. When did you know?’

‘Hah.’ Martin’s hand slips out of Jon’s and starts to trace lazy patterns into the hair on his wrist. ‘I literally took one look at you and got a little head over heels.’ Jon can’t help the way that makes him feel. Flattered and suspicious and guilty and a little overwhelmed. He thinks again of the young, nervous man in his memories. He'd noticed the way Martin had pushed his glasses up in front of his green eyes, the freckles on his forearms which coalesced into chestnut constellations at his elbows.

They've spent enough time together now that when Jon pats Martin's hand he knows automatically to shift so he's lying on his back. Jon flips over and curls into his side, hair flowing over Martin's shoulder, fingertips tracing the curve of his stomach through his T-shirt. He inhales deeply.

'I _think_ I might have fancied you from the start as well.'

'Fuck off.' Jon doesn't need the glow of the lamp to know that Martin is blushing.

'No, honestly. In retrospect, I had no reason to ask for you to be transferred to the Archives. I can only conclude that I fancied you and neither the emotional intelligence nor the balls to do anything about it. Sorry about that, by the way.'

'Hah.' Martin huffs into his hair, 'Don't apologise. I begged to be transferred to the Archives when I heard you'd taken over.'

'Well, there it is.'

Jon can feel that Martin is grinning. It's a sensation he hopes he doesn't get used to. He twists up to press a kiss into the smooth skin of Martin's cheek and feels that smile stretch wider.

'Say it.' Martin whispers. Jon's heart leaps into his throat, a heavy thing that beats rapidly when he tries to swallow it.

'I love you, Martin.'

'I love you _so much_.'

The small smile on Martin's face only slips away when he finally, _finally_ falls asleep.

******

For once, Jon is the last to bed. The statement he'd devoured that morning had left him feeling jittery all day, unable to stay sitting for any length of time, reaching for Martin only to jump away when the itch in his veins dictated it. Nevertheless, he finally feels ready to crawl into bed and try and sleep off the rest of this excess energy, hoping that he'll wake up tomorrow feeling satiated and well-rested.

He checks the drawers and then the washing basket. It would appear that the pair of them have been a little lax in doing their laundry. He sighs as he tugs off his trousers, resigned to sleeping in his shirt and boxers. Martin shouldn't mind. He's about to flick off the light when he catches Martin's wide eyes looking over at him from under the covers.

'You're wearing that shirt to bed?' He asks, tone surprised and laced with something else that Jon can't quite put his finger on.

'Yes. I'm out of T-shirts.' He replies matter-of-factly. He looks down at the shirt. It's not one of his favourites, just an old wine-red shirt that he usually considered too flashy for the Institute though he had worn it now and then. Martin probably assumed it was one of the few shirts he kept out of the Institute for special occasions because he'd never seen it. 'Why?'

'It's a nice shirt.' Martin replies, high and defensive. Jon frowns, looks down at it again. It's just a shirt.

'I can wash it tomorrow.' He says it like a compromise, though he's not entirely sure what the problem is.

The light goes out and Jon has to climb over Martin's body to get to his side of the bed. He yawns, settling into the pillows and throwing an arm over his bed-warm boyfriend. Martin wraps him up under an arm in turn and Jon twists his face to press gentle kisses into the patches of soft skin he can reach. 'Good night, Martin.'

'Hm? Yeah, night.' Martin's answering whisper is a little distracted but Jon thinks nothing of it as he shuffles into a comfortable position and lets his eyes fall shut. He expects that sleep will take a little longer to come than usual, with the remnants of his last meal spinning through his mind, but he is content enough to lay there and wait. To listen to the gentle breathing of the man he loves wash him into slumber. Martin tends to struggle with getting to sleep more often than Jon and he wonders with a small, self-important smile if, on those nights, Martin finds comfort in having Jon there with him too.

He lies still as he feels Martin's hand spread out along his chest, his middle finger slipping into the gap between the round, black buttons of his shirt and coming to rest against the curve of a rib. Martin exhales shakily. A few seconds later, that hand shifts downwards to his hips, tracing the prominence of Jon's hipbones and dipping lower to grab half a handful of the port-stained material. The backs of his fingers brush against Jon's skin and Jon can't help the little shiver that runs down his spine. It sounds like Martin is now struggling to keep his breathing steady.

'Are you alright, Martin?' He asks, eyes still closed, feeling the stutter in Martin's hand at the question.

'Ah - hah. Yeah. Of course.' Comes the stilted reply. Jon shifts slightly, ends up with more of his body pressed against Martin's and he can feel that the man is burning up.

'Are you sure?'

Martin's silence is smothering and Jon's heartbeat races to fill it. He wracks his brain trying to think of a reason Martin might be upset with him and draws a blank. True, he had been a little more frenetic today, perhaps he had said something hurtful and not even noticed. Had he?

'Jon.' The hand that was fisted in his shirttails comes up to cup his face gently. 'I can hear your cogs whirring. I'm . . . Fine. Promise.'

'You don't sound fine.' Jon rebuts gruffly. Martin has repeatedly proven himself to be an excellent liar but Jon can tell there's _something_. The man next to him lets out a long, slow breath.

'It's just . . .'

'Just what?'

'That's a really nice shirt.'

Jon' face scrunches in confusion. 'Martin, it's just a shirt. I just need to do some washing and then I'll wear a T-shirt again. Don't stress about it.'

'No, Jon. I mean, you look _really nice_ in that shirt.'

Jon has a moment of epiphany, where Martin's wandering hands and unsteady breathing suddenly makes perfect physiological sense. An image comes to him, not one of his own memories, of leaning forwards slightly against a hard, wooden desk, thighs pressed tight together, trying to catch a glimpse of - _oh_. Jon coughs.

'Oh.'

'Yeah. Sorry.' Martin shifts his body almost imperceptibly to put a gap between them, 'Just, ignore me, go to sleep. I'm sure I'll calm down in a sec.' A few seconds pass and he huffs a laugh, 'I can still hear you thinking.' Jon squirms as a placating kiss is pressed into his hair.

'You're uncomfortable.' He states and feels Martin shrug. 'No, you can't sleep. I could - I could help with that.'

'Jon.' Martin's soft whisper makes his face heat up, 'You really don't need to. I'll be-'

'Fine. I know, but . . . you could be good?' Jon rolls inwards so that his face lines up with the angle of Martin's neck and shoulder. He kisses the hot skin there experimentally.

'Jon?'

'I want to know what's so special about this shirt.'

Martin groans, covering his eyes with one of his broad forearms despite the gloom. 'I can't - It's so embarrassing.'

Jon's mouth feels suddenly dry. He has a way of making people spill truths they're too scared to share of their own volition. Martin must hear the change in his breathing because he rolls over to turn the light on and fixes his glasses onto his nose. His hair is standing up at odd angles, cheeks pink, mouth parted.

'You're going to think it's so stupid.'

'Is that consent?' Their eyes meet and Jon feels it like a ripple of static electricity all the way to his toes. Martin nods. ' _Tell me what's so nice about this shirt._ ' He demands. He watches as Martin's pupils blow out wide and the way his pink tongue darts out to wet his lips before it comes spilling out of him.

'You wore that shirt to work once - about three years ago now.' The room tilts and Jon can see himself - a much younger-looking, unscarred version of himself - through the half-open door to his office. He's wearing the shirt and Martin stares and stares as he scratches a note to himself and stretches, the fabric of the shirt going taut and clinging to his much more muscular chest. 'And I developed a very specific fantasy in which you were wearing that shirt.' The scene changes and Jon is looking down at himself from what must be a perch on top of his desk. This naïve and prickly idiot of a Head Archivist is rolling up his sleeves with a fastidious slowness and he can feel a creeping, wet sensation dripping down one of his thighs as Jon looks up at him, gaze apathetic. Martin keeps talking and Jon keeps watching the flashes of imagined positioning and dialogue. By the time Martin gasps a breath and Jon opens his eyes to take in his wide eyes and bitten lip, Jon's hands are shaking.

Georgie had once explained to him what the term 'thirsty' meant. He hadn't understood it at the time, how someone's desire for sex could feel like a physical need. But he can see it now, the drought in Martin and the tide he could bring to drown it out.

'Come here.' He rasps, reaching out to grab at Martin's T-shirt and _pull_. 'C'mere.' Martin comes willingly, hands reaching out to cradle Jon's head as their lips meet in a messy, bruising kiss. They break apart with a wet smack, faces hovering inches apart. Jon's burning eyes stare into Martin's, whose beautiful green irises have turned to a thin ring around the black expanses of his pupils. ' _What do you want?'_

He sees Martin try to fight it. Watches him bite down on his bottom lip as though that isn't Jon's job now. 'Rollyoursleevesup.'

'I didn't catch that, Martin.' Jon grins and lets out a hiss of breath as Martin pushes him backwards, down into the mattress.

'Roll your fucking sleeves up.'

Jon laughs as Martin whips the bedcovers back and wriggles out of his boxers. In response, he shuffles into a half seated position, unable to fight off a grin as Martin straddles his legs and bends down to kiss the air out of his lungs. Jon pushes him off with a firm hand on his chest and Martin sits back on his thighs. His lips are shiny and red in the lamplight and Jon almost regrets his decision until he sees the way Martin's eyes fall on the cuffs of his shirt and he almost forgets to breathe again.

'Ready?' He asks, teeth glinting. Martin rolls his eyes but can't keep them away for too long. It's a powerful feeling, being able to give a lover what they want, and Jon basks in it as he starts to roll up the sleeve of his left arm, seeing the way Martin's hands clench and relax by his sides.

He remembers something from the fantasy he'd stolen from Martin, a dry, unimpressed look as he rolled up his sleeves. The kind that poor Martin probably got from him every day at work while he was still being pathetic about owning his feelings. He tries to emulate it now, letting the amusement in the creases around his eyes fall into a smooth blankness. Martin sucks in a breath, a sure sign of success. The second Jon is finished with his right sleeve Martin reaches out to run his hands along his forearms, curving his spine to meet Jon's lips. Martin melts against him with a high-pitched hum as Jon reaches forwards to smooth his own hands up Martin's thighs and grab hold of his hips, trying to steady him. He lets one hand slide up to the back of Martin's neck, pulling him deeper into the kiss before running it down his back, fingers skipping over the bumps of his vertebrae.

'Jon.' Martin gasps as they break apart, whether in warning or yearning, the Archivist isn't sure. For all his smirking, Jon isn't actually sure what he should be doing next. Fortunately, he knows that Martin has plans. 'Please, will you?'

'Will I?' He asks and is immediately greeted with the mental image of what Martin wants but won't ask for. He swallows. 'Will I what, Martin?'

' _Jon_.' He groans, 'Don't play dumb.' He shuffles forwards slowly, giving Jon the option to call everything to a halt if he needs to, and ends up kneeling in front of Jon, hands gripping the top of the headboard, curly pubic hair almost brushing against the tip of his nose. Jon smiles and twists his head to kiss the unexpectedly soft skin of Martin's inner thigh. He traces a line of kisses right up to the crease where his thigh meets his groin and then, upon Martin's sharp intake of breath, repeats the process on the other side. He can smell him. Martin's fingers card into his hair, helpfully pushing it away from his face. 'Jon?'

Jon can just see the tip of Martin's dick, a flushed, rosy pink against the pale expanse of his skin, and he opens his mouth to run his tongue along the crease between Martin's thighs. He starts at the bottom, tongue slipping into a pool of Martin's wetness which, he notes curiously, tastes less strong than it smells, then curling forwards to lick a wet stripe along the sensitive hardness until he feels Martin’s nails against his scalp. Martin sucks in a breath and Jon looks up. His entire face is a wonderful shade of pink, made peachy by the glow of the lamp. He’s about to open his mouth and say something when Martin’s fingers tug in his hair, guiding his open mouth forwards. He loves Martin like this, the comfort and perfectly-brewed cups of tea stripped away to reveal this hot core of self-conscious dominance. He suspects few people have had the privilege of _this_ and he has no intention of ruining it with a poorly timed attempt at sarcasm.

Instead, he opens his mouth wider, lets the Martin push his dick past his lips and sucks, delighting in the keen of pleasure that escapes between Martin's teeth.

'Ah, God, softer. Jon - use your tongue.' Jon does as he's told, lathing his tongue over the mound in his mouth. His hands slide round from Martin's hips to grab two handfuls of his ass. 'Oh, fuck. That's _perfect_.' Jon knows that if Martin were having sex with someone else they might well be barely conscious with lust right now. As it stands, there's no curling pool of heat in his groin - not yet, anyway - but the murmured whimpers of praise falling from Martin's lips cast a happy glow in his chest and he has to concentrate on the movements of his mouth to stop from grinning like a fool. Martin's hands come to rest on the angle of his jaw, stroking his cheekbones gently as though trying to soothe away the developing ache in his jaw. _There's so much love in this_ , Jon thinks before he can catch himself and feels his face heat up.

Martin curses loudly, hips starting to grind forwards in tight circles, eyes falling shut behind the rims of his glasses. Giving him what he wants like this is addictive and Jon searches the memory of that fantasy for ways to make it even better for him. He strikes gold and Martin gasps a little 'Hu-ah?' of confusion as Jon's right hand skitters up his side, index and middle fingers coming to press against his mouth. Jon tilts his head back as far as he can to catch the shadow of confusion in Martin's eyes light up with understanding.

' _Oh_ \- fuck!' He whispers against Jon's fingers. 'Jon, you don't have to-' Jon is reluctant to let go of his mouthful so communicates his intentions by pressing his fingertips further into Martin's mouth and humming loudly in satisfaction as his lips part and those fingers are sucked into the wet heat. He can feel Martin's tongue against his fingers and, although it doesn't give him the same visceral feedback as it clearly does Martin, the writhing movements are certainly inspiring. He tries to copy the feeling with his own tongue. A broad swipe with his tongue here, sucking pressure there, letting it fall flat to create a larger surface for Martin to rub up against. When he drops his focus, Jon is surprised to find that he's moving his other hand, fingers fucking Martin's slack mouth as though they can't wait to be inside him a second longer. He can feel the vibrations of Martin's cut-off groans all the way into his wrist.

He pulls his wet fingers out of Martin's mouth with a pop and tries not to accidentally brush up against the fabric of their shirts as he moves his hand between Martin's legs. He has to pull back from Martin's dick in order to get in the right position and he takes the opportunity to look up at his boyfriend and smile.

'Okay?' Jon asks, hoping that Martin understands what he really wants to know is _am I doing okay?_ Martin nods eagerly, curling in over the top of Jon to kiss his forehead gently. Jon beams and then coughs to cover it up. From the look on Martin's face, he appears to have seen it anyway. Martin gasps as Jon's fingers bump against the sensitive head of his dick and Jon hurriedly slides them back until he can feel the dip of Martin's entrance. Everything is so much wetter than it was before and Jon would be hard-pressed to say how much of it was saliva and how much was the effect he's having on Martin. He thinks it's a compliment.

'Are you teasing me on purpose?' Martin asks, more breath than words. Jon smirks.

'If I say no, would you believe me?' 

'Absolutely not.' They both chuckle and Jon marvels at the way Martin's laughter spirals upwards into a moan as he finally pushes past his slick entrance and presses his fingers into the muscular wall inside. 'Oh-' Jon grins as he crooks his fingers inside and uses his free hand on Martin's ass to pull him back forwards towards his mouth. 'Fuck.' Martin hisses as he makes contact. 'Fff, that's - hah - Jon.' Jon hums in response and Martin must be able to feel it because his hands sink into Jon's hair once again, pulling tight on the granite locks as though they were reins. Martin starts to rock his hips, dick sliding across Jon's tongue, pushing Jon's fingers into that sweet spot inside himself. He groans, speeding up briefly before slowing right down, each movement harder and more precise. Jon can do little more than concentrate on the coordination between his mouth, hand and the writhe of Martin's hips and hope that whatever he's doing is good. Martin's stream of moans and curses are muffled suddenly as he bites down into his own forearm. Jon can feel Martin clench tight around his fingers and, from his admittedly little past experience of this, he thinks that the man might be about to come.

He glances up. Martin looks absolutely ruined. His coppery curls stick out at all angles, eyes squeezed tight behind glasses that are almost about to fall off his nose. If Jon didn't know better, he'd think Martin was in pain.

'N- Ah! Oh! Shit, Jon. I'm gonna come.' Martin throws his forearm out of the way of his mouth to gasp. His hands fall back into Jon's hair as though magnetised and Jon lets out a happy hum of his own as Martin pulls hard. 'I'm gonna -'

Martin seems to lose all control in his hips, rutting down messily onto Jon's face and hand and no amount of mental gymnastics can coordinate the licking and thrusting pattern he had so recently perfected. Martin throws his head back with a groan. The pink-suffused thighs bracketing Jon's face shake uncontrollably and, just as Jon wonders how on Earth Martin is staying upright, he falls forwards, head hitting the bedframe as his hands are too reluctant to slip from Jon's hair. He finally stills and Jon takes that as his cue to stop. He rests his head forwards against Martin's stomach and pants.

They each take a second and then Martin groans as he pushes himself back from the headboard, movements slow and weighted. Jon tilts his head up to find Martin's hovering a few inches away, eyes searching and heavy-lidded.

'I would ask for a kiss, but . . .' Jon shrugs, gesturing to his shiny mouth with an equally slick finger.

'Oh.' Martin licks his lips. 'I don't mind.' He proceeds to show Jon how little he minds the taste of himself on Jon's tongue with a deep, explorative kiss. It sends ripples of positive feedback throughout Jon's body and he darts forward for another as Martin pulls away, using his clean hand to twist his fingers into Martin's hair and hold him close. 'Let's go get cleaned up, shall we?'

Cleaning up takes longer than Jon would have anticipated with the minute he spends trying to decide whether it's rude or not to re-brush his teeth, the way Martin cracks up with a languid, happy laugh as he explains why everyone should urinate after sex and then, giggling at Jon's back as he tries to relax enough to pee, why that rule doesn’t apply to Jon right now. They make it back under the covers eventually, the scent of sex still lingering in the air. Martin curls around Jon's body protectively and whispers a sincere 'Thank you.' into his shoulder blades. Jon smiles in the dark.

'I might wear this shirt more often.'

The comment earns him a swift flick on his thigh but Martin can't help himself but rub the area better afterwards. He falls asleep with one hand clutching a wine-red shirt and Jon drifts off with a smirk.

******

They rarely do it this way. Their differing heights make it impractical almost to the point of discomfort for Jon to fit himself against Martin's back like this. His arms are looped around Martin's chest, fingers laced together near the sorrowful pump of his heart. His right arm isn't far from going dead but Jon would sooner feed himself to the Flesh before admitting it. He nuzzles into the space between Martin's shoulder blades in what he hopes is a comforting gesture and tries to think up something better he can do to ease this man he loves so much into the restful sleep he deserves.

It had happened when Martin had breezed in from his walk, all aflutter with excitement about this big bird he had seen which could have been a buzzard but also could have been a golden eagle. He had stopped on his way to the sofa from the kitchen, steam rising from the twin mugs in his hands.

'What's the date today?' He'd asked and Jon had answered, only looking up from the paper after two beats of silence. At first, he couldn't comprehend the slack-jawed expression on Martin's face. Or the way it had tightened sharply, like a hermit crab scuttling back into its shell.

He spent the rest of the day with Martin in and out of his arms. One moment: Martin's head under his chin, restless hands picking at Jon's tear-stained shirt. The next: Martin pacing around the cottage with the word 'fine' hiccoughed out in a relentless staccato. As the dove-grey sky outside the windows collapsed into night, Jon had coaxed Martin into eating some toast. Had coaxed him into a warm bath. Then, into pyjamas and under the covers. Now, curled up in bed together, Jon despairs at his woeful inadequacy in situations like this and can't help the guilt that he's feeling so rotten when Martin clearly has it so much worse.

He presses a kiss through Martin’s T-shirt for lack of anything better to do and scans back through the appallingly few memories he can recall where he had comforted someone and it had worked. He stumbles across one, the memory drenched in the smell of tobacco smoke and sweat. In it, he's in the cramped walkway backstage at the Student's Union bar with Georgie. He has his arm wrapped around her as she sobs into his chest - he can't remember what had upset her now but he remembers she was pretty drunk and that was definitely a contributing factor. Jon, much younger and hopped up on adrenaline from their performance, had opened his mouth and sang into her hair. She'd pushed him away eventually, calling him an absolute sap. But she'd wiped her tears away and smiled. He turns the memory over in his mind, tasting the words of his old band's only love song on his tongue for the first time in years.

He inhales.

Martin's body goes momentarily stiff with shock as Jon exhales into the first few notes of the song. Jon's voice is raspy with sleep and disuse as he tries to stay in tune while keeping the volume not much above a whisper. Martin's hand comes to rest over Jon's linked fingers and Jon shifts to twist their fingers together. Jon keeps singing, unsure whether he'll remember the words to the next line of the song until the bar before. It's as though the lyrics are concealed under a layer of dust he blows away as he sings. He reaches the end of the chorus and hums the backing riff that's ringing, unheard, in his ears. Martin sniffs a laugh and relaxes back against his chest.

The bubble bursts halfway in the second verse, when Jon accidentally repeats a line and gets caught in a confused tangle of adjectives for the person he's singing about.

'Fuck.' He whispers. 'I can't remember the rest.' Martin rolls over so that they're face to face and strokes the hair out of Jon's face delicately. Jon cranes his neck to kiss Martin's forehead, guiltily relieved that he's not crying.

'I don't know that song.' Martin croaks. Coughs.

'I'd be very surprised if you did.' Jon smiles. 'It's - ah - I wrote it. When I was in university.' He feels Martin's cheeks bunch up into the first real smile of the night and something clenches tight in his chest in response.

'No!' He draws the word out in disbelief, 'No way, you were in a band?'

'What I'm hearing is: _Jonathan Sims you're a lyrical genius and you have a voice like honey, pretty please will you sign my face?_ Right?'

Martin giggles and sniffs loudly, still bunged up from all his earlier crying. Jon lets himself be pushed onto his back and smiles as Martin settles in at his side with an arm across his chest.

'Your voice isn't like honey.' He mumbles. Jon strokes his hair with slow, soft movements. 'It's like . . . Smoky. Like the crunch of gravel underfoot but really satisfying.' Jon doesn't entirely know what to say to that. Martin's fingers trace the line of his sternum. 'Hm, that's not a good simile. I'll work on that.' He whispers, mostly to himself.

'Maybe I just need to cough?' Jon suggests and Martin huffs a laugh and tilts his head to kiss Jon's neck, right over his Adam's apple.

'Thank you.'

'You're -' Jon breathes, 'I know I'm not always . . . dripping with empathy. But I am here for you, Martin. If you ever want to talk about her or - or anything. Or, if there's anything else I can do. Just tell me.' Martin kisses him in the same spot and snuggles in until his hair tickles the underside of Jon's chin.

'Sing to me some more?' Martin asks and Jon's mouth twists, he should have expected this. 'Please?'

'Okay.' He relents easily, hugging Martin close to his chest as though he could squeeze the grief right out of him.

Martin falls asleep fairly quickly during the first song, clearly exhausted with emotion. Jon fights his own drooping eyelids, staring up into the gloom between their bodies and the ceiling and wishing, wishing, wishing that they could stay like this forever.

**Author's Note:**

> title from tuning page by sleeping at last (every line of that song is beautiful enough to be be a fic title!)
> 
> yeah, I know I should've written a pwp and be done with it, but I saw the opportunity to bracket it with 3k of soft, _soft_ jonmartin and I took it. take my headcanons, they're all I have left. 
> 
> sorry for the kind of bittersweet ending but S5 is coming and I am overflowing with fear!! 
> 
> thank you for reading, I hope you had a good time!


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